


Parallel Processing

by lindmere



Category: Almost Human
Genre: Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-04 07:51:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindmere/pseuds/lindmere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dorian suffers an on-the-job accident, he and John find a new way to work together more closely. Includes an alternate ending to (and spoilers for) the episode "Are You Receiving?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Like a lot of conscious beings, John spends a good part of his non-working time trying to find ways to be less conscious. Sleep--that boring but reliable old friend--has mostly been a stranger since he came back to the world, and John finds himself brain-fried but awake on the sofa at 3:00 AM, watching his favorite Taiwanese reality show ( _Crazy Family House_ is now on its second generation of contestants) while the ice melts in his Jim Beam. He paces himself, sipping just fast enough to buff the edges off his nerves but not fast enough to stray into _that way lies madness_ territory. In spite of what his colleagues-- _certain_ colleagues--might think, he’s very aware of his propensity, even desire, to check out of reality, which is why he stays away from neurostims and transcutes and every other designer mind hack on the market. John finds that the good old ways of brain rot that worked for his father and his father’s father work just fine for him.

Except at the station, or more specifically at his desk. Under the glare of biodynamic lighting that seems to be set permanently to _eye burn_ , John meanders through electronic busywork and pays too many visits to the coffee pod, all while envying the MX units their ability to put themselves on ice, standing ramrod-straight like the Palace Guard. Their vacant eyes look right through the assignment board as it lights up with an endless procession of stolen vehicles, lost pets and children, and minor-league heists. As an organic being, John can’t switch himself off and wait until there’s a case worthy of him, so the only interim solution is distraction. 

“Distraction? Why does that big, squishy brain of yours need distraction?” John glares across the lip of his coffee cup. When it comes to the frustration of hanging around the station, Dorian is both the cure and disease. “Why not put it to some use? Try to solve some of the intractable problems of our age. Or, you know, read a book. It wouldn’t kill you to look at something that isn’t 3D and threatening to walk out on its family for the fourth straight episode.”

“Gee, Mom, am I really old enough for my own library card?” John’s found that while sarcasm doesn’t deter Dorian, it at least leads to a more entertaining conversation. Luckily, John is spared any kind of witty retort by Maldonado’s voice over the comm.

_“John? I’ve got a hostage situation in Highland Park. A man’s barricaded himself in a house with a baby he abducted this morning. He’s got guns and explosives. Crisis Negotiation Team is on the scene, but we need a plan B.”_

“Copy that. Now _that’s_ what I’m talking about.” John parks a boot on the desk and begins to lace it up tight. He can feel the adrenaline rising, more of a rush than the strongest espresso.

“John, that’s somebody’s child. Could you be a little less--gleeful?” 

“I know, I know. But if it was going to happen, it’s great that it happened before lunch. Anyhow, don’t tell me you’re not dying for some action. Don’t tell me you don’t get bored, too, calculating pi to the gazillionth place for the millionth time.”

 _“Oh, and John?”_ Maldonado is back. _“Don’t forget to take your partner.”_

John checks his Taurus and re-holsters it securely before pulling on his jacket. “Do I ever?”

+++++

“You heard him. We have no choice.” John’s itching, ready to be gone; Paige needs them, is waiting so patiently, so bravely, for the rescue that he’s promised her.

“ _I_ don’t have a choice. People’s lives are in jeopardy.” 

Dorian’s voice is soft and measured, the way it always is when he’s delivering bad news. Even so, John’s distracted so it takes a few seconds to sink in.

“Dorian, you’ve been shot. Your head’s full of bubblegum; you can’t do this alone.” 

“I have to.” Still that infuriating calm, as if it’s inevitable. As if John would let his partner go in there alone. Now’s not the time for an argument, so John keeps his own voice level.

“Then I’m coming with you.” 

“You can’t. I’m designed to do this, John.” And that, right there, is the fucked-up thing about it. John would take the chance, would sacrifice himself in a heartbeat if it meant the hostages getting out alive, but it would be his choice. Whatever philosophical bullshit Dorian says about free will and wanting to be a cop, the truth is that he was built to be a walking crime lab and, when the need arose, a weapon. 

_Great cops aren’t born, they’re made_ , Marty had joked the first time they laid eyes on the MX’s. But Dorian is the first one that John would ever consider calling a great cop.

He can’t bring himself even to nod, so he just stands there, tight-lipped while Dorian does his Spiderman thing up the elevator shaft, because there’s indisputably no other way to make it up to the 25th floor unobserved.

It’s then that he hears the noise that will turn out to be Gregor Lanz, a henchman doing a little side business rifling through the cash box of an import company. John knocks him out with the butt of his gun and relieves him of the Facemaker. Luckily for Dorian, the head bad guy is both complacent and talky, which lets John walk in and take out the gunmen before the expensive electronics that make up Dorian’s head are spread all over the floor.

Unluckily for Dorian, the trigger on the light bomb is jammed with less than a minute left to go. 

What John knows about light bombs is this: they’re able to contain their explosive force within the limits of the visible light they radiate, making them very useful for annihilating people and evidence in enclosed spaces without causing structural damage.

What Dorian probably knows is their exact chemical composition and detailed specifications, as well as their time and place of manufacture, serial numbers, and patent filing date. But all he needs to know is the same thing John does: they kill people.

Dorian’s precision is why he’s rarely flustered, because he can time things down to the nearest millisecond. That’s how he’s able to rise to his feet, light bomb cradled against him like a baby, and shake his head just once, from side to side, before he turns and runs for the window faster than John can see.

It’s not like it was with Marty. There isn’t gunfire and screaming, and John neurons aren’t on overload from desperation and panic and the pain in his soon-to-be-former leg. It’s calm and almost beautiful, a streak of navy blue jacket taking off before John can even reach out to grab it, and then the sunlit burst of safety glass shattering into a million glittering fragments, raining down harmlessly while Dorian launches himself _up and away_ \--from the building, from the earth, from John.

There’s a moment of stillness at the arc of the parabola where John sees Dorian turn toward him, lips opening in warning or apology or something else, John will never know. For a hopeful second John thinks Dorian has some last trick up his sleeve, that he really will be able to jet off like Superman, if not launching the bomb into the sun then at least away from himself.

_I’m designed to do this._

He’s still clutching it tightly when it explodes.

+++++

_“She fooled the judge, she has all of you fooled, but I can see right through her. There’s no fucking way she should be allowed to raise a child, she’s a filthy snake that--”_

“Can we duck that, please? There’s no useful info and _God_ , is that irritating.” The sound in the car drops by a blessed 20 decibels, reducing the perp’s self-indulgent rant to a dull background roar.

Dorian picks up smoothly where the ranter left off. “That’s Braden Marsdale, the baby’s father. Alicia Diaz is the mom, and the baby, Alex, was home with a sitter when Marsdale broke in. Sitter managed to escape and call it in. Diaz had a restraining order against Marsdale, who was denied visitation because of his threats.” Dorian pauses. “That’s horrible, man. How could you conceive a child with someone and treat them like that?”

“ _I_ couldn’t, and neither could--” John takes a corner a little tight, startling a dog walker. “C’mon, we don’t have time for the ‘why do humans do bad things’ discussion right now. How about the layout of the house?” 

“Split-level single-family surrounded by trees, alley behind, chain-link fence with an unlocked gate. Access barred while negotiations proceed.”

“Understandable, when they’re going so well.” John guns the engine, pushing the car through what’s technically a red light. 

“John, if you’re going to do that you should put the car into emergency--”

John gives a theatrical sigh so Dorian won’t get any ideas about driving. “And announce to the world that we’re coming? What do I look like, the Crisis Negotiation Team?”

+++++

Certain things are supposed to happen when a cop dies: the casket-side vigil, the flag-draped coffin, the noisy wake at McQuaid’s. When your partner is a synthetic, there’s only a forensic team sifting the debris for the cognition unit. Not because it’s your partner’s brain, but because it contains confidential department information and can’t be remotely wiped when it’s disconnected from its power source, otherwise known as your partner’s body. They find it at the entrance to a car park on La Cienaga and bring it home in an anti-static bag. 

“Mother of _God_ , it’s about time,” John says when Maldonado tells him the news. “How soon can we get the new body?”

“I have bad news about that, John.” Maldonado’s face is sympathetic but grim; John doesn’t like either look. “Dorian was the only DRN model approved for reactivation, because he had--a bit of a history, and even then I had to fight tooth and nail with Central.”

“So swap it out. Aren’t those cognition things interchangeable? Just drop it in and let’s go.” John’s aware that his artificial leg is tapping away impatiently.

“It’s not that easy. They were returned to the manufacturer when the DRN program ended.”

“And then?”

“Sold off. They’re under no obligation to say to who, but--” Maldonado’s brows draw together. “Valerie saw one last year, serving drinks at a pool bar in Cabo.”

“Son of a--”

“I’m sorry, John, I really am.” She reaches out to put a hand on his arm, but John, somewhat childishly, pulls it away. “I thought Dorian would be good for you, and I think he was. But I didn’t think about the risk I was putting you in, so soon after losing another partner.”

“I _haven’t_ lost my partner. He’s sitting there in a locked drawer in Rudy’s office, just waiting to be turned back on.”

“It’s not going to happen.” She’s trying to get him to meet her eyes, but he won’t; he’s never been good at taking ‘no’ for an answer. “I hoped that Dorian’s performance might encourage the Department to try again, but what he did--”

“Was what he was _supposed_ to do, what they designed him to do. Even though he didn’t want to die, any more than you or I do. Don’t you think we owe him something for that?”

“That’s just it. He did what they’re _all_ designed to do. And that’s the reason we don’t give them rights, and we don’t give them second chances. Because they have no sense of self, no sense of self-preservation.”

John feels his chest tighten and his urge to shoot something grow. “Bullshit.”

“I agree, but that’s where we are right now. It doesn’t change the fact that you were his partner. And since he didn’t have any other survivors, I’m going to give you his personal effects.” She reaches under her desk and produces a plastic bin holding the complete contents of Dorian’s brief life. John picks through it, feeling leaden and ghoulish. It’s mostly Department knick-knacks he had no real use for--a coffee mug, a tissue holder--but at the bottom--

“ _Oh, shit_ ,” John mouths. At the bottom of the bin is an anti-static bag containing a surprisingly heavy oblong object.

“Sign here for it,” Maldonado says, maintaining her poker face. “And John? Don’t make me regret this.”

+++++

They park two blocks from the kidnapper’s house just to be on the safe side. John loads up his utility belt and throws a tan civilian jacket over it while Dorian stifles his amusement.

“No offense, but you don’t do the undercover thing so well.”

“Let me guess. It’s the haircut.”

“No, it’s the attitude. The haircut is just a symptom.”

“Mm-hm. How are the negotiations going?”

There’s a pause while Dorian acquires data. “Marsdale’s talking about how his parents wouldn’t let him get a dog when he was a kid.”

“Oh, spare me. Let’s go.”

“You should take the MX.”

“Do I have to?” John kicks the car tire. “Ten to one it’ll give us away. Thing’s about as subtle as Frankenstein.”

“He lacks grace, I’ll give you that, but he can do things I can’t. Plus we kind of owe it to the Captain not to, you know, disobey direct orders for no good reason.”

“Fine.” John sighs. “Synthetic on.”

The MX-44’s lifeless blue eyes pop open and begin to scan. “We are at the crime scene. Why have we not reported immediately to the Special Operations Commander?”

“Because we just got here, and because we’re supposed to be providing backup in case negotiations fail, and because I don’t need to explain myself to you, so zip it.”

He half expects Dorian to reproach him for his rudeness, but Dorian just chuckles. “Forget passing for a civilian, man; sometimes you barely pass for a human being.”

+++++

“But you must know somebody--black market? Ex-military? Maybe one of those genius teenage hackers they always show in movies?”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t travel in those sorts of circles.” For a guy who greatly prefers computer to human interaction, Rudy is holding up to John’s interrogation pretty well. “I associate with other hobbyists, and I go to the occasional professional conference, but I don’t dabble in black-market tech. Which I strongly advise against, by the way.”

John pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. He hasn’t had one in months, but the slab of metal he keeps in his inside pocket is like a weight he can’t unload.

“And with all these spare parts you can’t cobble together some kind of body?”

“We’ve been over this before, John. The Synthetic Soul OS has completely different requirements from a standard synthetic. I could plug in Dorian’s cog unit, but it wouldn’t be Dorian. At best it would be some sort of ghastly truncated version. I doubt he’d thank you.” Rudy lowers his eyes to the pile of forearms on his workbench. “And I doubt you’d like the result.”

“Well, that’s just great. What are we supposed to do? Just let him die?”

“Death comes for all of us,” Rudy says with his rabbity version of a smile. “It’s what makes us human.”

John reaches out a tentative finger to touch one of the disembodied forearms. “Not human, _mortal_. There’s a difference.”

+++++

“Are you Kennex?” The cop and her MX, standing guard over the entrance to the alley, both size him up.

“Yup. And you are?”

“Kalani, Ilana. Commander says for you to take up a position 50 meters down the alley and wait for further instructions.” She pins him with a glare only slightly less severe than the MX’s. “ _Don’t_ go any further without orders.” When John doesn’t protest, a faint smile appears. “Hope you brought something to read. This could be a long one.”

John does as instructed, listening in on the action--such as it is--through Dorian’s Vi-Fi feed. Marsdale’s made it as far as junior high and is complaining about not making the basketball team. John’s wandering mind is halfway through a fantasy basement remodel when he spots movement at the back door of one of the houses.

“Weren’t all the houses on the block evacuated?”

“Confirmed,” the MX says, at the same time Dorian says, “I saw a light flicker, like someone walked in front of it.”

“So maybe,” John says to the MX, “you could scan the house or something?”

The MX’s lips form a tight line. “Scan shows two humans: one adult, one small child, possibly an infant. I will inform the Commander.”

“No, no, no--don’t do that. Not yet.” Softly, to Dorian, John says, “What do you figure?”

“Could have masked themselves, used a blocker--after the initial scan and evacuation, they wouldn’t have done it again because they knew no one was coming in.”

“So it’s someone who wanted to stick around. One adult, one baby--pretty coincidental, don’t you think?”

“What I think,” Dorian says, in that measured voice that’s supposed to convince John he’s not jumping at the chance for action, “is that we should check it out.”

+++++

“I’m glad you found me, Mr. Exen. Your case is very interesting.” The ‘doctor’ is wearing jeans and a black metal ear cuff and is almost certainly not a doctor, especially considering she can’t be in more than her late 20s. 

“I’m guessing that if it weren’t, I wouldn’t have found you.” It’s taken three months of bribes, backroom conversations, and trawling in the deepest recesses of the Deep Web to find her, a rare example of an illegal human-machine interface designer who--while clearly in it for the money--also has something of a professional reputation. 

“That’s true. I’m not exactly looking for business.” John looks her up and down, trying to locate his risk level somewhere between _stupid_ and _really fucking insane._ Unlike most people on the transhuman fringes, she hasn’t given herself outrageous body mods or even the more conventional ones. She has bright, dark eyes and what appears to be an original, and slightly crooked, nose. “Dying billionaires wanting to be transplanted into young, beautiful bodies--it’s a cliche for a reason. So are the standard run of augments--extra memory, sub-luminal communication, universal translators.”

“Not all of those are illegal.”

“The good ones are.” She gestures John toward a metal chair, the only amenity in her “office,” a semi-abandoned warehouse in the outskirts of Chula Vista. “But that’s as far as the current state of technology will take us. It’s a rare person who wants to go the _other_ way. Who wants to integrate a machine consciousness.”

“Yeah, well.” John isn’t really sure at this point _what_ he wants. “I guess I’m just bleeding edge that way.”

“You do understand,” she continues, “that if I do what you ask, this consciousness will have complete control over you. Your body, anyway, your senses--”

“Okay, I get it. But I could take it out, right? If it got to be a problem?”

She shrugs. “I’m going to make a slot for it in your leg. If it’s disconnected, the neural net will dissolve over time like old-fashioned stitches. But that’s assuming it will _let_ you disconnect it. You could find yourself in a very compromised position, Mr. Exen.” Her semi-serious expression breaks and she gives a lopsided grin. “But maybe that’s what you want.”

What John wants is to get the hell on with it and not feel like his participating in some kind of AI dom fantasy--his or hers, he’s not sure. Soon enough, though, they’re wheeling him into an improvised operating theater, feeling heavier of heart and lighter of bank account. It looks clean enough--he’s been in worse, and he’s gotten independent confirmation that the mysterious doctor is one of the best, even if she’s never seen the inside of a university.

There are no pleasantries, no smiling reassurance that he’s going to be just fine, and for that John’s grateful, because there’s nothing fine about what he’s doing. He’s stopped trying to figure out the reason for his compulsion; it’s just something in him, something he has to do the way Dorian had to jump out that window.

 _Part of my programming_ , John thinks, and smiles as the mask is lowered over his face.


	2. Chapter 2

John wakes up with the familiar and unwelcome post-anesthesia choking sensation, combined for extra fun with a dry mouth and nausea. He looks around hopefully for a pretty nurse carrying a heated blanket and a cup of ginger ale, but of course it isn’t that kind of place--i.e., a legitimate hospital. There’s nothing much he can do but dwell on his own misery, grudgingly thankful that he’s still alive. He closes his eyes, tries to breathe, and asks himself why he chose to spend his first long weekend in months in the back of a damp warehouse getting illegal tech implants.

As usual, there is no reply. Except, after a few minutes--

“John?” The voice is soft, tentative, and unmistakable.

“Dorian?” John’s eyes pop open and dart around the room. Of course, Dorian is nowhere to be seen.

“John, what am I doing in your body?” He sounds as freaked out as John feels, though of course lacking John’s ability to sit slack-jawed on the edge of a metal gurney while he tries to get used to having someone else in his brain.

John squeezes his eyes shut again, but nothing changes. “How are you doing that? Sounding like yourself, I mean?”

“I really think my question is more important.”

“Okay. Okay, sure.” John slides off the gurney, trying to find his sea legs. Somehow, he expects to feel heavier. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Dying.”

“You didn’t die. I mean--” He’s had months to prepare for this conversation and so far hasn’t cracked a book, or even read the Wikipedia entry on _Conciousness_. “Your brain survived, and it-- There were no bodies available, not ones that could handle it, and I don’t know, it just didn’t seem _fair_. They paid tens of millions to keep me in a coma indefinitely, and you--they put you in an envelope. It wasn’t even a _nice_ envelope.

“And so you had me installed inside of you.” Dorian’s voice is all patient incredulity. “That’s--that’s pretty amazing. I wasn’t under the impression that you even liked having me in your car.”

“I had to do something,” John says stubbornly. “I don’t know if it was the _right_ thing, but it’s all I could do.”

“And I appreciate it. Especially since this doesn’t appear to be a licensed medical facility.” John feels his eyes swivel around of their own accord, which is deeply disturbing and doesn’t help his nausea.

“Hey, could you go easy on the body control for a while? I need some time to get used to being a Muppet.”

“Oh man, I’m sorry. I won’t touch, except--wow, whoever these people are, they really did a good job. I can see and hear perfectly. That is, as much as you can.”

“No more perfect robovision, sorry. Welcome to being human.”

“It’s fine. Really, it’s great,” Dorian says, not quite convincingly.

“You don’t have to be a polite houseguest. If this isn’t what you want, tell me, and I’ll--”

“Do what? It sounds like this is my only option, for now. Kind of like your afterlife, right? It may not be everything you want, but it beats the alternative, except for those ones where you’re a ghost or a shadow or something. I see you sprung for the Vi-Fi, so I could spend a day or two searching for a new body. There are some electronics sites in international waters where you can get pretty much anything, or so I’ve heard. How long is this going to last for?”

“It’s permanent, pretty much.” Now that his head is clearing, John’s starting to feel like the groom on the morning after a Vegas wedding. “At least, until one of us can’t stand it any more.”

“Oh.” Briefly, Dorian seems shocked into silence. “John, that you’d do something like this for me--you were taking such a huge risk, and you still are. I can control your body, I can see through your eyes--do you know what that means?”

“Of course I do.” John tries to sound resolute, like he’s not thinking about every embarrassing body function seen through a robot’s eyes--or _his_ eyes, seen with a robot’s brain. And his apartment, with a semi-permanently clogged toilet and nothing in the cabinets but self-heating packs of _dao xiao mian_. And his life, from approximately 8 PM on Friday night to 6 AM on Monday morning, not including overtime. Not to mention the ways he’s been used to keeping himself entertained….

“I can get out of your hair, so to speak. As long as I have the Net, I can keep myself busy. I won’t lie, I miss my body; there’s that whole mind-body thing--you know, actually, Descartes wasn’t that far off base. But I want to make this work for you, since you were nice enough to put my brain in your leg.”

That image makes John feel that maybe his nausea isn’t completely gone, but still, Dorian is hardly the iron-fisted android overlord the doctor warned him about. He’s exactly how John would, in hindsight, have imagined: tactful, self-aware, and surprising in a good way, an _interesting_ way. John has nothing against good surprises.

“Yeah, that’ll work,” John grunts.

“Good. Thanks. And if you ever want company--”

John throws the covers back and begins disconnecting old-fashioned ECD leads from his chest. “I’ll whistle.”

+++++

Dorian was wrong about one thing; John only makes it to 5 meters before the person in the house sees his approach.

“Hey!” the guy calls out from a position inside the window. “Who are you? Are you a cop?”

“What do you think?” John whispers to Dorian. “Braden Marsdale?”

“Most likely. But then how was he planning to get the baby out?”

“Let’s find out. What’s the homeowner’s name?”

“Park.”

“Mr. Park?” Dorian can’t pull off his usual uncanny mimicry with John’s vocal chords, but he can at least modulate his voice to sound less like someone who’d shoot first and stomp later. “It’s Jake from over on 4715 Lakeland. I heard a commotion, I came out here to check it out. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Marsdale, if it’s him, sounds a lot more pissed off than worried. “There are cops out front--it’s a hostage situation. Go home and lock your doors.”

“Is it really? Holy crap.” John takes a cautious step forward, getting ready to surrender to autopilot. “Shouldn’t you get out of the house, then? You could come over to my place.”

Exasperated, the man steps out from behind the curtain. John--and therefore, Dorian--can see the glint of a gun barrel over his shoulder.

“That’s him, that’s Marsdale. Carrying a Glock Quad 370. No firearms history; probably a bad shot trying to feel like a big man.”

Marsdale cranes his head and spots John standing in a patch of cilantro. “For fuck’s sake, I said just get--”

John moves with a speed that his muscles are just barely capable of, but a grace and precision that are not his own. Marsdale’s first shot shatters the window but misses him by at least a foot. The comm in John’s ear starts beeping insistently as the negotiating team likely start to lose their collective shit, but John ignores it. He crouches behind a bush as Marsdale lines up his second shot, then lunges and rolls as the second one pings through a trashcan. Marsdale--not a pro by any stretch--is flustered enough to lower his weapon just slightly and step a little too far out into the open.

Dorian’s shot takes him perfectly in the meaty part of the gun arm, away from the artery. The gun falls from his hand and he clutches at the wound in agony. John lets himself in through the open back door and cuffs him, feeling even less guilty about his groans when he spots the man tied to a chair.

“Alberto Tan, the next-door neighbor,” Dorian says as John gingerly removes the tape over the man’s mouth. “Married with a nine-month-old baby girl.”

“He took my baby!” Tan wails, pointing at Marsdale. “He broke in, he said he’d kill us both. And he took my baby, gave her to another man who took her away--Olivia!” He doubles over, starting to sob.

John pats him awkwardly on the shoulder. “Sir, I’m sorry, but--isn’t this your baby over here?”

Tan shakes his head violently. “That’s Alex Diaz. He lives next door; I babysit for him sometimes.” He turns red-rimmed eyes on John. “Can you find my daughter?”

“I’m pretty sure I can, and I don’t think I’ll have to look far. Most likely she’s next door in Alex’s crib, perfectly safe.” He digs in his pocket, pulls out some tissues, and hands them to Tan, who blows noisily.

John can no longer ignore the frenzied beeping in his earpiece segues into the voice of a rather pissed-off Maldonado.

“ _John, what the hell? The CRT reported gunfire and said you weren’t responding._ ”

“I’m fine. I’m in the house next door with the wannabe kidnapper, cuffed and waiting.”

“ _How? Did he try to run?_ ”

“He wasn’t there to begin with. The guy monologuing over there is an accomplice, maybe, definitely not Marsdale. He switched the babies.”

“ _I see. But if he was next door the whole time, how was he planning to get away?_.

“Oh, I suppose--” John actually has no idea, but Dorian’s voice is confident in his ears.

“Wait until sunset, put the baby in the Tans’ stroller, and walk out. The CRT wouldn’t be expecting it because ‘Marsdale’ would still be talking and--”

“Wait until sunset,” John continues, “and walk right out under the CRT’s noses, while the fake Marsdale is still yapping out his fake life story. How long would they wait to avoid an explosives situation in a residential neighborhood? Another 12 to 24 hours and Marsdale would be over the border. So tell CRT they should feel free to storm that idiot next door, especially if it’ll shut him up.”

“You never get the simple ones, do you, John?” He can hear the smile in Maldonado’s voice. “Still, this is going to be a mess to sort out; you better come right back to the station. One other thing--your MX reported you for suspected performance-enhancing drugs. Says he’s observed you doing things humans normally can’t do.”

“That son of a bitch!” John shoots an evil look at the back alley, where he can just make out a pair of unblinking blue eyes. “How does he know what I’m capable of?

“Even so--better watch it with the Superman stuff.”

“Will do.” He opens the front door to a caseworker who can take care of Mr. Tan and then exits through the backyard, which is crunchy with broken glass and shell casings.

“Not a bad day’s work,” Dorian says. “Though I’m thinking that under the circumstances, I should get some of your paycheck.”

“Consider yourself lucky I’m not charging you rent.” The MX has at least had the courtesy to pull the car around, but John hates the sight of it sitting in the passenger seat. His partner’s seat.

He yanks the door open. “Out. I’m going home. You can hitch a ride back with the CRT.”

It seems to be eyeing him narrowly, maybe thinking about another complaint it can file. But of course that was impossible, because MX’s couldn’t feel resentment, couldn’t feel anything.

Not like Dorian. Not like John, for that matter.

“Chow time?” John asks.

“Whatever. I’m just along for the ride.”

+++++

Fortune Garden is a favorite of John’s, not only because the _dan dan mian_ has just the right amount of heat, but because the owner likes having cops around and will give up her private table to John if it’s crowded.

It’s early on a Saturday evening and the crowd is mostly older folks, plus a few younger ones carb-loading before a night on the town. John sits at the rearmost table with his back to the wall, the way he likes it. No one pays any attention to the fact that he’s muttering under his breath; at any given time, half the city is yapping away to their electronics more than to each other.

“Central’s reporting that the fake Marsdale was an actor he hired,” Dorian says. “Marsdale told him it was an audition for a reality show, and that he should keep going no matter what, to show he had the stamina.”

“Poor son of a bitch. Who tries to be an actor these days, anyway? There are hardly any real people in movies anymore, and the reality shows--if you’re not already crazier than a loon, they don’t want you.” John drips more chili oil into his noodles, enjoying the slow-building burn that makes the broth feel like liquid heat against his tongue. “Nothing’s stable any more. Lucky crime is a growth industry.”

Coincidentally, there’s a kid a few tables away who looks pretty shifty, sitting alone at a corner table, eyes darting nervously toward the door every couple of seconds.

“Would you mind not slurping like that?” Dorian asks, breaking John’s reverie. “You know I have a thing about mouth noises.”

“You can’t eat these things without slurping; it’s impossible, unless you have some kind of amazing suction-powered mouth, which I don’t, and which you don’t any more, so just--”

“Sorry, sorry,” Dorian says, not sounding all that sorry. “Want me to take off for a while?”

“No, it’s okay.” John puts his chopsticks down, feeling like he ate too fast. “Sorry for making the crack about your body. I just can’t be on my best behavior all the time.” He waits for the obvious comeback, but it doesn’t arrive. “Listen, I’m saving up vacation days. Pretty soon we can head down to Cabo, check out that lead on the DRN.”

“And what if we find one? We mug him and take his body? Or buy him outright and try to smuggle him over the border? You know the purchase and transfer of synthetics is highly regulated, and beyond that, the whole thing is _gross_. It’s bad enough without me being some kind of vampire cruising Playa Palmilla for a body I can steal.”

There’s something about the topic John doesn’t like. Maybe it’s thought of Dorian with a different body--one that looks like him, but isn’t _him_ , not the body that spent six months sitting in John’s passenger seat while the brain criticized his driving. Or maybe it’s just that kid at the nearby table, checking his mobile so often John is suspecting a drug drop.

“So suggest something that doesn’t compromise your principles,” John says. “But any way you slice it, we’re going to end up a body short.”

“Not if we go to the manufacturer. That’s the only way to make sure we’re not evicting another being.” Dorian’s principles are sounding more complicated and expensive by the minute.

“Okay, but I thought we agreed that was impossible. The manufacture of synthetics for defensive purposes is a highly guarded yadda-yadda. Rudy doesn’t even have clearance.” John resumes eating, a little more quietly this time.

“I’ve found them. At least, I think I have. They source the components from about a dozen different manufacturers, and then they’re assembled in Tanchon, in the Free Commerce Zone. A company called Nokotek Light Manufacturing.”

“So that’s what you’ve been up to while I’m sleeping.”

“And eating, and watching holos, and taking a leak.” In point of fact, Dorian checks out pretty often, sometimes, but not always, to John's relief. “Believe me, there are a lot of things I don’t want to be exposed to; biologicals can be pretty horrifying. There’s so much--” John can imagine Dorian scrunching his face in disgust “-- _metabolizing_ , stuff growing and decaying and getting sloughed off and excreted--”

“And yet, you want this repulsive organism to take you into North Korea so you can break into an ultra secure factory and steal a body.”

“Nothing of the sort.” Dorian sounds indignant. “There’s always a way to get what you want if you have the money.”

“How is that not a problem? We’re working on one cop’s salary.” The kid at the nearby table is fidgeting like a junkie who’s a day overdue. John lays his chopsticks across his bowl and unzips his jacket.

“Spot me a couple hundred and I can turn it into hundreds of thousands. I supported myself when I was on my own.”

“Online gambling?”

Dorian makes the lipless version of a _pffft_. “Derivatives trading. Palladium futures on the Nikkei, mostly, although I had some good runs with gold on the Micex.”

That’s enough to get John’s attention off the fidgety kid. “You mean we could have been making a fortune this whole time? Why am I just hearing about this now?”

“Because you don’t have any problems that money can solve.”

John is about to take very strong exception to that statement when the kid at the table suddenly screeches his chair and jumps to his feet. John just restrains himself from jumping up, too; instead, he reaches his right hand into his jacket and grips his Taurus.

Another young man has appeared in the doorway to the restaurant and is headed toward the kid. He doesn’t look threatening--he has neat, close-cropped dark hair and a button-down shirt tucked into jeans under a tan jacket--but looks can be deceiving. The kid is almost desperately grateful to see him. John watches closely; if there’s a drop, it will probably happen when they shake hands.

“John?” Dorian prompts. “What are you staring at?”

“Start recording, okay? I think there’s a drop going down.”

“Okay, but I don’t think that’s what that is.”

The kid reaches out to greet the new arrival, but they don’t shake hands. Instead, the dark-haired man kisses the kid on the cheek.

“Cam, I am _so_ sorry,” he says, taking a seat. “Traffic effing sucked. There was some kind of hostage situation and the cops had, like, five square miles blocked off. It took me an hour just to get on the freeway.”

“Liar,” John mutters. But there’s something about the way the kid brightens up--like he's a Christmas tree, and someone had just plugged in the lights--that makes John exhale a little more heavily. A cozy restaurant during the dinner rush, and only a few people sitting with other human beings. It’s not unusual, but for some reason, tonight, it makes John depressed.

“John,” Dorian says. "It'll be okay."

"What will? How can you make a statement like that?” John can feel himself flushing. "There’s nothing okay about this. Nothing has been okay since--” _Since Anna_ , he wants to say. Because that’s when it started, before he lost his partner and his leg and his will to do anything but throw himself into dangerous, outlandish situations, his life reduced to chemical impulses, adrenaline and endorphins and carbohydrates, more reactive in his own way than Dorian. Even body-less, Dorian leads a more interesting life than John and probably knows it, even if he’s too tactful to point it out.

“Thought you couldn’t read my mind,” John says finally, pouring himself another cup of tea, since he’s probably going to be up until 3 AM anyway.

“I can’t. I just want you to know--If I _do_ get a body back, I’ll still want to be on the force, if that’s possible. Probably, anyway.”

“And if you don’t? Get a body, I mean.” John hasn’t brought it up before, and in hindsight it’s strange that Dorian hasn’t either.

“I don’t know. Back into stasis, maybe. You could put me in the cornerstone of a building and somebody could find me in a hundred years, like in that cartoon. Who knows, maybe we’ll have taken over the world by then.”

“Or,” John says, taking a gulp of tea for his suddenly dry throat, “you could stay.”

There’s a long pause; uncomfortably long, so that John almost asks if Dorian is still there, but he holds his tongue.

“That’s a nice offer,” Dorian says finally. “Really nice, since I know how you feel about--everything, basically. But I need my own life; I can’t live inside of yours. Which is not a shot, but-- I really miss it, you know?” John can hear the smile in Dorian’s voice. “Having a body. Opening my own curtains in my own apartment and looking out on a new day. The feeling of the sun on my skin. When I think about it, maybe I don’t want there to be an afterlife. Just a little more of this one.”

“I can see where it would get boring, haunting just one person,” John says, but the way Dorian talks makes John feel like he owes his body an apology, or like he should give it up to somebody who could make better use of it.

The couple at the nearby table are sharing a plate of _shumai_ , both talking at the same time, looking at pictures on a mobile phone and laughing.

“I’ll lend you the money,” John says, with sudden, gripping decision. “I’ll go to Tanchon, if that’s what you need. Getting mixed up in top secret North Korean robotics manufacture--it could be fun. I’m getting tired of the usual drone heists and clone murders.”

“Thanks, John.” The way Dorian says it brings its own little bit of sunshine. “I won’t lose your money and I won’t get you into any trouble. You know I wouldn’t do that.”

John does. There are other things he’d like to know about Dorian, but those can wait, until Dorian gets his body, and his independence.

“Fine,” John says. “Maybe next time you can pick up the check.”


End file.
